My other blahgs

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Which Reminds Me

Posted originally at Jaded Haven, whose proprietrix has taken down her shingle and thrown in the ink blotter.
The blogging world will sorely miss her. I know I will. I had a devil of a time trying to find this essay, but given the spiritual turmoil I am currently under lately, I thought I would trot it out before it gets exiled to the circular file.

Driving leisurely through Daphne’s archives often sends my
mental carriage fishtailing out of control. If not with fits of
giggles, then with sated sighs, and every so often, rage and grief. This essay caused my memory to go into reverse without pausing for neutral. Read as her skilled hand causes the wreck which follows:

Long held secrets came spilling out the summer I turned
seven, killing the balancing act of my parent’s marriage. On High
Island, we attended church every Sunday morning in a white clapboard
building that held no more than a hundred souls in the pews. Maybe once a
month, on Saturday evenings, we’d attend tent revivals held
for traveling charismatic preachers. My daddy’s family looked forward to
these religious spectacles. They scared me shitless.
Regular Pentecostal services are a wide world away from their
Catholic, Episcopalian or Baptist equivalents. Tent revivals exist in a
whole other realm. I watched my stalwart, calm faced aunts, female
cousins and grandmother moan, speak in tongues, faint in ecstasy, handle
snakes and dance like demons. The normally stoic male members of my
family exhibited similar bouts of frightening behavior. I hated tent
revivals, spending most of them hidden under my folding chair, eyes
squeezed tight shut, fingers shoved in my ears, waiting to be carried
out to the safety of the car and driven home.

Ah, you’ve caused me to drive the car backwards into a ditch, Daphne,
and now you’ll have to sit with me for a spell. Have a Slurpee while I
share my own tale of Pentecaustic Woe.

My father’s only love is the piano. My
mother once complained that he spent more time at the piano than with
her, and she was going to leave him if he didn’t get off that infernal
thing and watch Lucy with her on the tee-vee. Without a word, he went
into the bedroom, packed her bags, left them in the hallway and went
back to practicing. She never complained about it again.

By day he sold pianos at the French Market in Kansas City, at least,
he made a valiant effort. By night he played in mob-owned strip clubs.
His desire to be Sarah Vaughan’s accompanist was never realized – his
brush with fleeting fame at that time was posing in a photograph with
Lawrence Welk.

He wasn’t a very good salesman. He’d start his spiel by offering the
customer advice, then select a piano that would go with the rest of
their furniture. At the point he had to close the deal, he would
demonstrate the piano’s virtues, and forgetting the customer, he would
begin to play. And play. The customer, realizing he would never be able
to play that well, left. But there were occasions when he made the
sale. And that was usually to a church.

Dad played the organ in our church. He was the only member who could.
Our church was a small, nondenominational collective of anal, henpecked
men whose wives were gossiping scolds. Our family was their main source
of nourishment.

The problem the church busybodies had with my father was how he played the organ.

Musically, he was a black man in a church full of tone deaf Klansmen.
His playing was a thing of exquisite blasphemy. He cast aside the
Methodist three-chord blandishments and restraints and pumped in chords
and forbidden rhythms from the Devil’s own Fake Book, inspiring
lustful arousal – augmented minors, dominant sevenths and tenths vamped
with a downbeat and walking bass lines. He made the Wurlitzer wail and
moan with orgasmic pleasure.

Alas, in our church, there was no amen choir for such playing. There
was no choir at all. Just congregational singing at its worst. I spent
my time in those moments by making up new words for whatever hymn we
were singing.

And then he sold a baby grand to a Pentecostal church.The preacher, an organist himself, invited us to visit his church. My
father, wary of all things Roman Catholic or Charismatic, would have
declined, but for the money. Come Sunday, the six of us showed up,
dressed in our faded, Goodwill best.

The preacher had roped off a whole pew for us midway from the front
to the back and we filed in, youngest to oldest. My father sat next to
the center aisle, removing the only avenue of escape.

The service started off well, with robust and joyous singing. The
preacher played the organ, with his wife at the new piano. The church
members sang well, clapped their hands, and for once, my father felt
kinship with a church.

After the preacher introduced us and made announcements, the praying
commenced. And such praying it was. Nothing prepared us for the
praying.

The six of us froze as one. I slowly opened my eyes and turned to
look at my father for silent instruction. He was waxen. His eyes were as
wide as mine, and he was sweating. He made no expression, and did not
look back at my inquiring gaze.My older brother likewise, was a stone.

“HAMMANA SHEE TOGEE YODEE YODEE VOVOVOVO TANGA MENTO DODEEDODO!”
continued the preacher. Everyone, save for us, had their eyes closed and
hands upraised, each beseeching their Lord and Savior in his own
tongue.

I looked at my little sister, Malinda, on my left, who looked back at
me with the same expression I gave her. And then I looked beyond her to
my little brother, Stacy, expecting the same reaction. My mouth fell
open as I watched him press the palms of his hands to his mouth.

“Oh Lord, please don’t do what I think you’re gonna do!” I
thought, hoping he would see the word “NO” forming on my lips and the
slight shake of my head. He did, of course, but chose not to listen to
his Better Angel.

“PPPPFFFFTTTTH!” he softly farted with his mouth into his hands.My father’s stupor was over. Turning, he glared at Little Brother,
his jaw clenched in rage. I stared straight ahead, as the raucous
gibbering of the congregation continued. I felt my father’s arm slide
behind my neck. With a silent flick of his wrist he slapped Little
Brother’s head.

Only he missed, and hit Little Sister’s head, instead.“Ow! Whud I do?” she cried, rubbing her head. Dad leaned to his left
a bit more and flicked his hand again. And once more, he missed Little
Brother, hitting Little Sister.

I tried to stifle the laughter forming in the pit of my stomach. I
struggled and failed. My whole body shook. I looked again at Little
Brother and in a brief display of mercy, he quit face-farting. My eyes
began to water and I bit my lip. The preacher, squawking ecstatic
insanities heavenward was now moving up the aisle. He paused at each pew
and placed his hands on the head of the person sitting closest to the
aisle and spewed sacred gibberish, following with the only word I
understood: "Amen!” He continued up the aisle toward us. I bit my lip
hard, to stop myself from laughing. I gave a pleading look at Little
Brother, who decided to play the face game.

Pulling his cheeks downward and rolling his eyes into the back of his
head, he opened his mouth to show only his bottom teeth. Zombie face.

“Please, oh please oh please, just STOP!” I silently prayed.
Little Brother continued, this time pulling the sides of his head back
to make his eyes squint. He sucked in his cheeks and pursed his lips,
with his front teeth protruding. Chinese face.

I covered my mouth with my hands and laughed, as my whole body shook.
I gave up trying to control myself and began to cry. The preacher
stopped at our pew. He stopped chattering and spoke loudly in English:

“Brothers and Sisters,” he bellowed, looking directly at me. “This child is filled with the Holy Ghost!”

And with that, the entire congregation got up from their pews and
surrounded us, laying hands on my head, while rapidly praying to Jesus
in heartfelt, unintelligible noise. Some were overwhelmed and cried.

Once more, I froze, and waited for the blessing to pass. The preacher said, “Amen!’ and a chorus of amens followed.

There was a sermon, I believe. I can’t for the life of me remember
what it was about. Little Brother sat still for the rest of the service,
when he saw that I was bored with his antics.

Once we left the church and got into the car, Dad turned to look at us, his face shaking with rage.

We held our breaths, awaiting the judgment and punishment that was
sure to come. Instead, he laughed. Long and hard. And we laughed with
him. All the way home. Back to our neighborhood of drug addicts, drunks,
wife beaters, gangs and crazy ladies.

We all got out of the car as the Crazy Lady walked slowly by.“Goddamnsonofabitch! Goddamnsonofabitch! Goddamnsonofabitch!” she
incanted. Those were the only words anyone had ever heard her say. She
stopped to look at us.“Goddamnsonofabitch!”

And we replied, “Amen!”

Please take some time and read Daphne's wonderful and hilarious piece of weirdness and the comments left by the readers. They are all brilliant, witty, and one of the reasons I will miss Daphne and her razor-sharp mind.

Yep! Little Brother had a way of timing his farts for maximum coverage in the least amount of space with the most victims as possible, too. Like the time we were in Lewiston WA at the hotel there where dad was playing, and we were trapped in the elevator with him while he let them rip. Now, he maximizes his art at my dinner table with everyone else seated. At least he's matured, and only releases the hounds when everyone is completely sated.